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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3901 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention A Deliverance from Goats Marie Eyre Trapped like clotted cream in fine mesh, I seek reflections in the window. I find my hovering face, the walls, a door and mud huts along the bank of a swirling river. A goat escapes his pen; I drive him back with a herding stick. His bleating mingles with jungle song and the slow thump of a clock that echoes through a dead apartment, a place of wandering and remembering, traffic-rattled windows, the rotted smell of neglected food. When did eating become a chore? Muted voices seep through the wall. A dog barks and a lion roars. My goats huddle in their pen. They’re afraid. I’m afraid. I squeeze between their warm shivering bodies, not wanting to be alone. I never wished to be without him, but he grew tired of trying; left a few memories to warm his side of the bed. I curl into his deserted space, slide into his image and enter the goat pen. They all sleep except one. He pushes his bearded face into my hand; I stroke his bony forehead, run my fingers along his curved horn, but imagination crumbles beneath the weight of truth: release the past and free my goats. I hurry to the pen; the goats huddle in the rain; I unlock the gate and they dash into the jungle. I want to follow, but I’m terrified. It feels like an end with no more beginnings. This might be death. Once I dreamt of my demise. It felt like the jungle without my goats. They run from me, giddy with freedom - the jungle grows quiet, still - cream seeps through mesh, after all. |
